


A place to make my mark.

by Silverwingprime



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-10-06 13:32:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10335752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverwingprime/pseuds/Silverwingprime
Summary: This isn't anything specific, but i get periodic inspirations to write. This is just a good spot to put them.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This first story was inspired by Five Finger Death Punch's song 'Wrong side of Heaven'.
> 
> Aliquam Gaster, who is my portrayal of Papyrus, has two stories to build his past. The underground is his more gentle, but in the modern, where the story would not begin in the underground, he's a war veteran. 
> 
> This chapter tells of his dreams, of the pain that comes with fighting a war.
> 
> Enjoy ^^

Standing alone was a form who's boots dug into the dust and sand below them. Bodies of enemy and ally laid around him, killed in battle with only their uniforms to tell where they belonged.

He was tired...

 

He was so... so tired...

A single gasping breath escaped him as he leaned his head back, as if he were drowning. Death by water was terrifying, but it would bring this aching soul to peace, as he so greatly wished to die. Join his fellow soldiers in the afterlife, where pain and strife had no place.

He knew he stood on solid ground, in solid boots, Each step was taken with precaution and awareness, and yet, he felt the weight that weighed him down in the cradle of each hand.

In his right hand, it was cold metal being dragged behind him. The weight of the weapon he had used to take lives in a single fired shot.

He could smell the gunpowder, and the residue that would forever stain his hands. Burned into his fingertips the pressure that it would take to load each bullet into the magazine of his

rifle. His index finger would twitch one every so exhales, his method of making a clean shot, He never missed, never fired a second time.

But in the left... It was his own weight... And that which took it was a cane. 

A cane... 

He was damaged. No one escaped from war without losing something. For him, it was his innocence... His youthful ignorance that he would never get back.

He was called a hero. But he didn't feel like it. 

Nor could he feel the prosthetic that sat where his left femur once belonged.

Was he still whole after all he had endured? After all that he had done, the blood on his hands, The dust under his boots...

And yet, he felt upon his body eyes... _Their_ eyes. Their eyes gazed upon him in love, care, and understanding. Their touch was gentle as they caressed his cheek, they kissed his head, they embraced him with wings that would hide his body from the world, let him look within, and remember just who he was before his ability as a soldier was summoned forth.

Wings like the softest pillow, and like the warmest blanket, they cradled him and told him things that made him wish so greatly to shatter and break into tears. He wanted to scream, he wanted to beg forgiveness, wanted to plead to his father of blood and spirit both to forgive him for what he's done; And yet he knew he would be heard, as much as his pain filled soul told him that no one listened, he was heard, and every time, he could feel the wings. They would wrap around him, pull him close to a form, words would be whispered, unheard by ears, but understood by heart and soul alike

He wanted to scream, he wanted to beg forgiveness, wanted to plead to his father of blood and spirit both to forgive him for what he's done; And yet he knew he would be heard, as much as his pain filled soul told him that no one listened, he was heard, and every time, he could feel the wings.

They would wrap around him, pull him close to a form, whether taller or shorter, and words would be whispered, unheard by ears, but understood by heart and soul alike. They would let him scream, they would let him sob, and curse, and beat upon a shoulder until his fists could no longer stay clenched. 

 

He was so tired...

 

He'd release all he had to give, whether it took seconds or hours, the angels would stay and wait... In time, he'd finally surrender, he'd collapse into their embrace, and beg one last time for peace. They would say nothing, just caress his head, and pick him up. His gun and cane abandoned in the path behind him, they would lay him down in a bed of down, as if a child put to bed. He'd be covered up, and words would be uttered as he closed his eyes for the last time... He always heard them, but he never understood what words were said.

He'd let his soul rest, and he'd finally die in peace...

 

 

Until he awoke once more, to suffer the dream another night.


End file.
